When We Dance
by SFGrl
Summary: Chandler goes missing...and it's a race against time to save him! Read & Review! {Complete}
1. Prologue

AN: Okay, all, it's time to torture Chandler in all new and fun ways!  This idea came to me while I was watching an _E! True __Hollywood_ Story_.  Seriously.  _

I'm posting the prologue to see if there's any interest in more Chan-Torture.  LOL.

**When We Dance**

_~Prologue: If I Ever Lose My Faith~_

_If I ever lose my faith in you_

_There'd be nothing left for me to do_

_I could be lost inside their lies without a trace_

_But every time I close my eyes, I see your face_

"Monica?  Wait, please!"

"This conversation is over!  And so are we!"

"No, Mon, wait, I can explain—"

"Explain?  Explain what?  That you're a pathetic _loser who can't get his own life together, much less maintain a stable relationship?  That-that you are a horrible friend, and an even _worse _boyfriend?"_

"Monica—"

"Leave me alone, Chandler!"

"Monica!!"

"Stop yelling!" 

"Monica!"

"I said shut up, Bing!"

He was vaguely aware that someone had hit him, and that his head had hit the wall, and then the floor.  He struggled to sit up, but couldn't move.  He struggled to open his eyes, but the darkness consumed him.  He called out for Monica, but there came no reply.

He was alone again.

*

Monica gnawed on her fingernails anxiously, as she watched her brother and best friend whisper quietly at the door.  Her brother looked over at her, then took a deep breath before walking toward her.

She held her breath, and kept her eyes focused on Ross' shoes.

"Hey Mon," Ross whispered, and placed a heavy hand on her bony shoulder.

"Just tell me who was on the phone, Ross," Monica said flatly.

"It was them," Ross said softly, his voice cracking slightly, "Chandler—Chandler's dead."

_ ("If I Ever Lose My Faith In You", by Sting ©1993)_


	2. One: Fields of Gold

**AN: I'm keeping the rating at PG-13 for now, but there is some swearing in this chapter, so if I need to, I'll change the rating later…**

I have to say, I was shocked at how many people reviewed that short prologue, lol. (Thank you!)  A few people asked me why I don't torture Monica…frankly, it's just not as much fun for me…hee.

**When We Dance**

_~One: Fields of Gold~_

_When the night takes a deep breath_

_And the daylight has no air_

_If I crawl, if I come crawling home_

_Will you be there?_

_Two Weeks Earlier_

I often have this dream; I am standing in a vast wheat field, a warm breeze rushing over my face, and through my hair.  My hand brushes over the tips of wheat, as a wander toward the deep blue horizon—nothing ahead of me, nothing behind.

There is a sense of freedom within me.  With no baggage of the past…no clear future taking shape…I am free to be who I want to be—I am free from the world that spawned the person I've become.

Eventually, inevitably, I wake up; my world collapses around me once more, and reality comes back to taunt me.  I close my eyes, and struggle to find the fields again, but to no avail. The day invades; and I am once again reminded that I have become something that I despise, and the depression hits me, like a speeding taxi.

I rise, and greet the morning with a low grunt.  Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I cross the room, and fumble with the teakettle.  My mind begins to clear, and I make a mental note of all the things I need to do today.  I need to go to the store…we're almost out of bread.  I need to check on our guest.  I need to—

A sharp rapping on my front door interrupts my thoughts.  Sighing deeply, I shuffle to the door and undo the door lock, two dead bolts and brass chain—this is New York, after all, who knows what kind of nutcases are running around?  I laugh silently at my own little ironic joke, and open the door.  My smile fades, when I see that my brother is in a horrible mood.

"Are you gonna let me in, or are you just gonna gape at me like some kind of fucking asshole?" Nothing but class; that's my brother!

"Sorry," I mutter half-heartedly, and move to the side.  My brother stalks in, and looks around expectantly.  I can't help but notice that he kind of resembles a gorilla, with his long, thick arms swinging around the way they are.  I keep the thought to myself, and wait for him to form a coherent thought.

"Well, where the fuck is he?"

"Do you need to be so crass?" I say irritably.  _Honestly, it's not like we're teenagers._

"Sorry.  Where the _fuck_ is he you _fucking_ asswipe?"

_Asshole.___

"He's in there," I point to the door in the back of the room.

"In the fucking closet?  Are you trying to fucking kill him or something?"

"Well, I can't just leave him out here," I argue, "in case you haven't noticed, this is a _studio_ apartment!"

"Yeah, whatever," my brother mutters, clearly not interested.

He thumps over to the closet door, and opens it slowly.

"He's not moving, fuck face," at least my brother is finding new and fun ways to use his favorite word.

"He's asleep, I say, as I approach.  He had a long night, what with all his squirming and fighting back and shit," I mutter.

"You sure this is the right kid?"

"Of course I am."

"Whatever," my brother mutters, seemingly convinced.  I make a mental note to check out our guest's pulse later.

"You got any food, butt plug?"

I shrug, and nod toward the kitchen.  My brother heads toward the refrigerator, and I take a moment to observe the unconscious form that is slumped against the wall of my now-empty closet.  While I still have my reservations about all of this, I know that there is no going back now.

*

Monica shook her head slowly, as she leaned against the doorframe.  If Chandler was trying to get back at her, messing up her apartment was definitely the way to do it.

What was he really hoping to accomplish here?  Yeah, he'd made a mess, and yes, it pissed her off _severely_, but it wasn't going to solve anything.

She sighed, and moved fully into the apartment.  She realized at that moment that Chandler wasn't trying to accomplish anything; he was just being childish.  Being childish was something her boyfriend excelled at.

"You really don't want to mess with me, Bing," Monica muttered to herself, as she picked up one of the kitchen chairs.

The door opened, and Monica spun around, expecting to see Chandler walking in laughing.

"Wow, what happened here?" Phoebe exclaimed, as she and Rachel walked into the apartment.

"Chandler happened," Monica said irritably, as she finished picking up the chairs.

"Uh oh, trouble in paradise?" Rachel smirked, as she sat down in one of the chairs Monica had just straightened.

"Shut up, Rachel," Monica hissed, and headed into the living room.

"Whoa, don't take out your anger on me?  What happened?" Rachel held her hands up defensively.

"Sorry," Monica sighed, as she picked up a thin throw, and re-placed it on the back of the sofa, "It's nothing, really."

"You sure?  Chandler's finally getting to ya, huh?" Phoebe giggled.

"No…well..." Monica scanned the room, "he is on my list now."

"Hey," Ross said, as he walked into the apartment, "Mon, have you seen Chandler?"

"Not since this morning," Monica sighed, "Why?"

"He was supposed to meet me at the museum today, and he never showed," Ross shrugged, and pulled open the refrigerator door.

"When was he supposed to meet you?" Phoebe asked.

"A few hours ago," Ross said, his head inside the fridge, "Hey Mon, do you have any juice?"

*

"Huh?" I asked, and turned away from the closet.

"Beer, asshole, do you have any beer?"

"Is there any in there?"

"Nope," I watched my brother close the fridge door, and look over at me expectantly.

"Then I don't have any beer."

My brother opened his mouth to swear at me, but a sudden rustling stopped him.  I turned around, and saw that our new guest was coming to.

_Two Months Earlier_

"Is that a threat?  Because you can _not_ threaten me!"

"All I'm saying is that you may want to consider your actions here.  You don't want to piss these people off."

"Trust me, I'm aware of the consequences.  Just get me the money."

"Fine," the thin man relented, and wandered out of the room.

Turning his blue eyes up to the ceiling, he sighed and shook his head.  This was no big deal; he certainly wasn't afraid of those dopey Radcliffe brothers.  And he was definitely smarter than them!

What could possibly go wrong?

*

"Hey," Chandler smiled, as he walked into Monica's apartment, "anyone here?"

"Nope," Monica smiled seductively, and moved closer to Chandler.

"When is Rachel gonna be home?" Chandler mumbled between kisses.

"Late…very…very…late," Monica replied breathlessly.

"Mmm…excellent," Chandler grinned, kissed Monica's neck, and picked her up quickly.

Monica squealed as Chandler picked her up, then settled her head into the crook of his neck, as he carried her into her bedroom.

"Chandler?" Monica whispered two hours later.  Her head was resting on his bare chest, and he was running his right hand through her ebony hair.

"Hmm?"

"Do you think we should tell them…you know, about us?"

"Do you think we're ready?"

"I think so," Monica grinned.

"Okay," Chandler shrugged, "but can we do it next week?  I don't want to die before the Knicks game on Friday."

Monica giggled and turned her head to look up at Chandler.

"It won't be that bad," she smiled.

"Yeah, okay," Chandler grinned, "but if Ross murders me, I'm blaming you."

Monica laughed and shook her head, "It'll be fine—nothing's gonna happen to you!"

"That's what you think," Chandler chuckled, and pulled Monica up and on top of him, before wrapping his arms around her and kissing her deeply.

_In a little while_

_Surely you'll be mine_

_In a little while I'll be there_

_In a little while_

_This hurt will hurt no more_

_I'll be home, love_

_When the night takes a deep breath_

_And the daylight has no air_

_If I crawl, if I come crawling home_

_Will you be there?_

_In a little while_

_I won't (be) blown by every breeze_

_Friday night running_

_To Sunday on my knees_

_That girl, that girl_

_She's mine_

_And I've know her since_

_Since you were a little girl_

_With Spanish eyes_

_Oh, when I saw her_

_In a pram they pushed her by_

_My, how you've grown_

_Well it's been_

_It's been a little while_

_Slow down my beating heart_

_Man dreams one day to fly_

_A man takes a rocket ship into the skies_

_He lives on a star that's dying in the night_

_And follows in the trail_

_The scatter of light_

_Turn it on_

_Turn it on_

_You turn me on_

_Slow down my beating heart_

_Slowly, slowly love_

_Slow down my beating heart_

_Slowly, slowly love_

_Slow down my beating heart_

_Slowly, slowly love_

_("In a Little While", by U2 ©2000)_


	3. Two: Truth Is a Whisper

**AN:  Okay, so apparently, I confused some folks with that last chapter, lol.  I was yelled at for making people think ("You made my girlfriend _think!!") lol._**

**Well, that was kind of the point, really.  I know what's going on, and eventually, you will too!  But here's some help.  The Prologue was not the beginning of the story…nor will it be the end.  Anyway, here are some answers to your questions…**

**When We Dance**

_~Two: Truth Is a Whisper~_

_Coming down the world turned over_

_And angels fall without you there_

_And I go on as you get colder_

_Or are you someone's prayer_

_("Black Balloon", by The Goo Goo Dolls ©1998)_

His head was throbbing, and his shoulders were burning.  He struggled to open his eyes, but darkness had forced itself upon him menacingly.  He struggled to move, but found that his wrists and ankles were bound together.  So he tried to scream, but could barely produce a sound.

Where was he?  What happened?  He could barely recall a thing.  He remembered a horrible, horrible fight with Monica…then…he tried desperately to recall what had happened after that…but it made his head hurt more.  He groaned and squirmed slightly, then froze when he heard someone approaching.

"Looks like he's alive," a man with a deep voice muttered.

"Told ya," another voice, not as deep, replied.

"Shut the fuck up asshole," the deep voice roared.

"So, what are we s'posed to do now?"

"We have to wait…we don't know if the money's come through yet."

"Well, how long do we have to keep him?"

"As long as we need to," the deep voice replied irritably.

"Hey, buddy, you uh, you okay?" the other voice was closer…the man must have leaned down toward him.

Chandler squirmed, and moaned loudly.  What the hell was in his mouth?

"He's fine," the gruff voice chuckled.

Chandler moaned again, as the two sets of footsteps faded away.

*

I felt the guilt creeping up on me, as we talked to the man in the closet.  After all, this man hasn't actually done anything to us; he's really nothing more than a bargaining chip, in a dangerous game that could get us all killed…or worse, arrested.  I look over at my brother, who is busy shoving my three-day old chicken fried rice into his face.  He doesn't seem to have any trouble with all of this, and that in itself is upsetting.  Am I the only one in the family with any morals?  Maybe not…I mean, I am part of this fiasco, after all.  I look over at my brother, then back down at our guest.

"Jerry, I think we should give him some water or something," I mutter.

"Huh?"

"Water; I think we should at least _try to keep him _alive_."_

"Whatever," Jerry shrugs, and looks back down at his rice.

I walk into the kitchen, and grab a cup from the drying rack.  I fill it with tap water, and cross the room again.  I crouch down, and look at the man for a moment.  He is frozen in place, his head perked up like someone straining to listen.

"Okay, buddy, I'm gonna take this rag outta your mouth, but you gotta promise not to scream.  You _really don't wanna piss off my brother."_

The man nods stiffly, and I pull the gag out of his mouth.  He takes a deep breath, and licks his cracked lips carefully.  I can see where the gag has started to cut the sides of his mouth, and I can feel my guilt flaming up again.

"You want some water?" I ask.

"Y-yes," his voice is raspy.

I tilt the glass into his mouth, and he sucks down the liquid hungrily.  He finishes, and I pull the glass away, and allow him a moment to catch his breath, before reluctantly pushing the gag back into his mouth.

"Sorry about this man," I whisper, before walking away.

*

"I told you, I'm doing everything I can to get you your money!"

"Well, that is good to know.  However, one of my boys saw you at the race track again yesterday."

"Well, I thought—"

"This isn't a game!  You said you didn't have anything—that you had no family.  Now that I know that's a lie, I am having trouble believing anything that you say!"

"Paul—"

"It's Mr. Radcliffe to you.  And you'd be wise to work a little harder.  Your son's life depends on it."

Charles blanched, and sank back into his chair.

"You thought that just because your kid doesn't live in Vegas, we wouldn't find him?"

"Please…leave him out of this," Charles' voice cracked.

"It's a little late for that.  You've got ten days, Charles.  I suggest you use them wisely."

*

"I didn't think the fight was that bad," Monica slumped into her kitchen chair, three days later.  "I mean, where could he have gone?"

"I'm sure he just needed some time to cool off, Mon.  He'll be back," Rachel placed a supportive hand on Monica's shoulder.

"Yeah," Monica sighed, as she absently played with an orange she'd picked up from the center of the table.

"What is it?" Rachel asked.

"I just…I said some things that…that I shouldn't have said."

"What do you mean?"

"You know how it is, when you're fighting with someone, and you say things you don't really mean, just to be spiteful?"

"Yeah," Rachel nodded, and pushed images of her rows with Ross out of her mind.

"I said…I said I regretted what happened in London," Monica said shakily, and sniffled.

"Oh, Mon—"

"But I don't!  I don't regret what happened, I—" Monica shook her head vehemently.

"I'm sure he knows that, Mon.  I mean, it's not like _he always says the right thing," Rachel smiled sadly._

"He _never_ says the right thing," Monica laughed through her tears, and sniffled again.

"See?  His pride was just probably hurt, ya know?  I'll bet he'll be back tonight."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Monica smiled and stood up, "I'm gonna go ask Joey if he's heard anything.  Thanks, Rach," Monica pulled Rachel into a tight embrace.

"Oh, anytime honey," Rachel smiled, and watched Monica walk out of the apartment.

As the door closed, Rachel's smile faded, and she looked down at the table.

She didn't have the heart to tell Monica that Ross and Joey had been out searching for Chandler all night.  She couldn't tell her that Chandler was nowhere to be found, had not shown up for work, and had not contacted his parents.

She didn't tell Monica that Phoebe had been having nightmares; that she had felt something wasn't right.

No, there was no need to worry Monica more than she already was.

Because Chandler was just fine…he had to be.

*

He must have dozed off, because a loud thump startled him into consciousness.  His first instinct was to open his eyes, until he remembered that he was bound, gagged and blindfolded.  He shook his head slowly, and tried to squirm into a more comfortable position.  His muscles were aching, and his head was throbbing.  He tried to loosen the ropes that bound his wrists, but the ropes had already done extensive damage; he winced as he turned his wrist, further irritating the deep burns.

He froze when he heard footsteps approach.  Instinctively, he looked up as the closet door opened.

"Okay, uh, I'm gonna untie you so you can go to the bathroom," it was the man who had given him the water a few hours earlier, "are you hungry?"

Chandler nodded.

"Okay, uh, I'm gonna untie your legs.  So uh, don't try anything, okay, because we will punish you."

Chandler nodded again, and sat anxiously as the man untied the rope around his ankles.  He was then helped to his feet, and guided across the room.

He struggled to hear any kind of familiar outside noises, hoping that he could figure out where he was.

He heard traffic, which meant he was still in the city, but no distinctive sounds stood out.

The man stopped him, and cautiously pulled down his blindfold and untied his wrists.

He was blinded by the sudden onslaught of florescent light, and he squinted quickly.

"Okay," the man pushed Chandler toward a toilet.  Chandler turned his head slightly, and saw that the man was now wearing a ski mask.  Shaking his head, Chandler turned and tried to do his business.  He moaned irritably, and looked back at his captor.

"What?" the man said, and yanked the cloth out of Chandler's mouth.

Chandler coughed, and took in a deep breath, before speaking.

"I can't…with you watching," Chandler whispered.

"Oh, right," the man said uncomfortably, and turned to face the bathtub.

Chandler looked at the man again, then took a deep breath.  He gathered his strength, and shoved the man into the bathtub, before racing out of the bathroom.

He saw the other man scrambling to his feet, as he ran toward the front door.  Fumbling with the multiple locks, Chandler looked over his shoulder and saw the large man advancing toward him.

He turned the last lock, and swung the door open, just as the man grabbed his arm and yanked him back into the apartment.  Chandler flew to the ground, his muscles screaming as he hit the ground.

"That was _unbelievably fucking stupid_, asshole," the man growled, and kicked Chandler in the gut several times.

He was vaguely aware that the other man had entered the room, before his world went black.


	4. Three: Lies Become the Truth

**When We Dance**

_~Three: Lies Become the Truth~_

_All the evenings close like this_

_All these moments that I've missed_

_Please forgive me, won't you dear_

_Please forgive and let me share_

_With you around the bend_

_You're an angel when you sleep_

_How I want your soul to keep_

_On and on around the bend_

_('Around the Bend' by Pearl Jam)_

_"Are you even listening to yourself?  You are NOT making any sense, Chandler," Monica was fuming now, her anger fueled by the overwhelming need to win this argument._

_The problem was, she couldn't even remember what they were originally arguing about._

_"You don't listen to a damn thing I say anyway," Chandler growled, and tossed the dishtowel he had been holding on Monica's pristine kitchen floor, a look of pure defiance crossing his face._

_"Oh, you are SO crossing the line, Chandler—"_

_"Oh, what, are you gonna ground me MOM?" Chandler began walking toward the front door._

_"Don't bother—" Monica swept past Chandler, and opened the front door, "I have to go to work anyway—and you'd better not be here when I get back!"_

_"I don't think you have to worry about that—you're not exactly my favorite person right now."_

_"Oh right back atcha!" Monica yelled as she walked out the door.  She spun around on her heel, and glared at Chandler._

_"I knew London was a bad idea," she said slowly._

_She ignored the look of defeat Chandler wore as her words hit him—he looked like he had been punched in the gut—and slammed the door in his face._

_Only when she reached her chaotic restaurant kitchen, did she let herself cry._

_He felt dizzy._

_Of all the things she could have said—even in the heat of the moment—that one statement stung the most._

_And she knew it._

_His insecurities were raging—he felt like his world was spinning out of control, like everything he knew to be real was false._

_Somehow, he had managed to stagger to the sofa, his legs giving way as Monica's words rang in his ears._

_He had a feeling—a deep, dark feeling—that Monica did regret London, on some level._

_And that scared him to death, because he didn't regret a thing._

_He heard the door open, and he held his breath, hoping that Monica had come back to retract her earlier statement._

_She didn't have to apologize—he would do that, if need be—she just needed to take it back._

_He turned slowly, his eyes full of hope._

_It wasn't Monica; and whoever it was, punched him hard in the face._

_Chandler fell off of the sofa, and took most of the cushions with him.  He scrambled to his feet, but it only made the throbbing over his right eye worse._

_"W-what do you want?" he croaked, as he shuffled around the sofa and bravely (stupidly?) tried to make his way to the door._

_The larger man grabbed him by the arm, and threw him toward the sofa.  He hit the back of it hard, and let out a pain-filled groan._

_He still didn't know who they were, or what they wanted, but every instinct he had told him that he needed to get out of the apartment as fast as he could._

_He grabbed the thin throw that Monica had hung from the back of the sofa, and used it to pull him up._

_"You sure that's him?" the smaller man said softly._

_"It's him," the larger man growled, and moved toward Chandler._

_His eyes darted from the man to the door—he'd never make it._

_The man grabbed him, and tossed him like a rag doll across the kitchen table._

_Chandler's leg caught on one of the chairs, and as he fell toward the ground, his head slammed against the kitchen sink._

_"Geez, try not to kill him Jerry," were the last words he heard, before he fell into blackness._

*

"Mon?  Monica?  Helloooo?" Phoebe waved her hand in front of Monica's vacant eyes.

"What?" Monica jerked back to reality, and looked over at Phoebe.

"You asked me about my date…and I was telling you, but then you kind of…faded out on me," Phoebe giggled, then sobered slightly, when she noted that Monica hadn't so much as cracked a smile, "Are you okay?"

"No," Monica said irritably, and stood up, "I just…want to know where he is," Monica's voice faded as she spoke, and her last words were barely audible.

"Mon, I'm gonna tell you something, but you have to promise not to get mad, okay?" Phoebe bit her bottom lip nervously.

"What?  Have you talked to him?  Where is he?  Why hasn't he come back?" Monica's eyes flared up frantically, as she rambled out her string of questions.

"Mon, we don't know where he is…and that's kind of the thing.  This just isn't like him.  It's been almost a week!  So, um, me and Joey, we…we talked to the police," Phoebe stared down at the kitchen table, hunching her shoulders as though she was expecting a violent reaction from her already edgy friend.

"The police?" Monica asked timidly, her eyes filling with tears.

"I'm sorry Mon, we didn't want you to worry too much, you know?  We should have told you, I know, but—" Phoebe sighed, and looked up at Monica, "The police filed a missing persons report…but they don't have any leads yet."

"Missing persons…" Monica repeated distantly.

"I guess the good news is they don't suspect foul play," Phoebe smiled hopefully.

"Yeah," Monica smiled stiffly, as the tears that had been sitting in her eyes slid down her cheeks.

"Mon, I'm sorry," Phoebe stood from her seat, and pulled Monica in a deep embrace.

*

I watched silently, as Jerry kicked our guest in the gut and the head, as I rubbed my throbbing forehead irritably.  Who knew this guy was gonna be so gutsy?  Or so stupid?  I looked down, and noted that he seemed to be unconscious.  Jerry either hadn't noticed, or didn't care.

"Alright, man, that's enough," I say slowly, deliberately, "He needs to be alive, remember?"

Jerry halts his assault, and looks up at me.

"Just…tie him up and put him back in the closet," I sigh, and shuffle into the kitchen.  I sit on one of the kitchen chairs, and watch Jerry tie up our guest, and toss him carelessly into the closet.  He looks at me, a wicked grin spreading over his fat face.

"That'll teach him to fuck with us," he growls.

"Yeah," I say vaguely, as that annoying guilt creeps up on me again.

He'll be alright.  And when we get our money, he'll go home.

I have to keep telling myself that—I'm not a murderer—I'm not.

*

The pain was overwhelming.  His head was swimming, and his ribs were throbbing.  There was the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, and the ropes that bound him seemed much tighter somehow.  He winced, as he attempted to roll to his side.  

From the other side of the door, he could hear his two captors arguing.  He wondered what they planned to do with him?  He wondered why he had been targeted.  

He wondered how long he had been here.

Judging by his own rather putrid body odor, he assumed he had been here at least a few days.  He was starving, and thirsty, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to stay conscious for extended periods of time.

Occasionally, the man that Chandler had termed 'the nice one' would bring him water, and sometimes pieces of bread or a bit of what Chandler had assumed was the man's attempt at oatmeal.  But the visits were few and far between, and never when the 'big ugly one' was present.  

The lack of food, oxygen and sunlight had begun to take its toll on Chandler's psyche.  It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to delineate between reality and fantasy.  He spent many of his conscious hours thinking about, and sometimes talking to Monica.  There were times, when he swore she was sitting right in front of him, talking to him as though nothing was wrong.  He would often answer out loud, and in his head, his words came out perfectly clear.

As though he wasn't gagged.

Presently, his mind began to drift to Monica again, and then to Joey and Ross and Phoebe and Rachel.  They were all there, asking him questions that his weakened mind didn't quite comprehend.  He shook his head slightly, and struggled to focus.

Pulling himself from his reverie, he stained to listen, as the argument on the other side of the door seemed to die down slightly.

"Look, Dad said he was giving this guy ten days total.  It's been seven days, and Dad hasn't heard a word from him.  Do you think he even cares about his kid?"

"I don't give a shit man, I just want what's coming to me."

"Maybe we should try other sources.  I mean, we already have the guy.  His place was pretty nice—I'll bet his wife or whoever has some money."

"He's not married…but maybe we could hit up his friends."

"How do you know he's not married?  When we followed him that day he had that woman with him."

"He's not wearing a ring, dipshit.  Anyway, it doesn't matter.  I think we should try these people.  They must have noticed he was gone by now, right?"

*

The letter arrived in Monica's mailbox the next day.  The plain white envelope had nothing written on it, and at first, it had gone unnoticed by a very distracted Monica.

It was Joey that noticed the envelope, later that day, on Monica's kitchen table.

"Hey Mon, what is this?" Joey held up the envelope as the rest of the group turned to look at him.

"I…I don't know," Monica shrugged, as she crossed the room.  She took the envelope from Joey's hand, and pulled out her letter opener.

The group watched, as she pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper.  She began to unfold it, when a Polaroid photo slipped out, and fluttered to the ground.

Monica bent down and picked up the photo slowly.  She turned it over, and let out a horrified gasp.

"Chandler," she whispered, dropping the photo onto the table.

The others gathered around the table, to find a photo of Chandler, bound, gagged and blindfolded, his face heavily bruised.  Underneath the photo, was that day's date, scrawled messily in black marker.

Monica collapsed into a nearby chair, as Ross picked up and unfolded the note that had accompanied the photo.

In the center of the page, was what Ross recognized as Chandler's handwriting—it was a little shaky, but the long script was unmistakable.

"They made him write his own ransom note," Ross mumbled, as he sank down in a chair next to his little sister.

"What does it say?" Rachel was standing behind Monica, her arms protectively around her best friend and roommate.

"It says…'$50,000 in two days, or…he's dead.'"

AN: So, I got the idea for the first part of this chapter this morning…weird.  Then when I went into my computer, it turned out that I already had the rest of this written—I had no idea I'd already done this chapter!  So I'm gonna go through my files, and see if I have inadvertently finished any of my other fics…lol.  Reviews would be most helpful…it let's me know that people out there might actually be reading my crap!

;)


	5. Four: On Love, In Sadness

**When We Dance**

_~Four: On Love, In Sadness~_

_Oh love it's a brittle madness, I sing about it in all my sadness_

_It's not falsified to say that I found god so inevitably well, _

_It still exists pale and fine. I can't dismiss _

And I won't resist and if I die well at least I tried

--Mraz/Keene

Time, or at least the measuring of it, is a constant.  No one second is any longer or shorter than the next—time ticks away, with absolutely no regard for the affect it has on the world that surrounds it.

But when it matters most, time can seem to drag…or to fly, and it can seem bitterly unfair, or wonderfully just.

Monica watched time slip through her fingers like fine granules of sand; and she was powerless to stop it.

Ever since they received The Letter, every moment seemed precious; and the hours seemed to pass at an alarming rate.

Her reality was foggy—strange and dream-like.  She wanted to deny that all of this was real, but her mind told her that she didn't have time for denials.

They had 48 hours.

There was a mad rush to gather the money—all five of them cleaned out bank accounts, savings, 401-k's—they sold things—televisions, radios, even pints of blood.

And they came up $12,000 short.

And 46 hours had passed.

Silence—a stifling, awful silence—filled the room, weighing it down, and suffocating the people who occupied it.

Would the kidnappers accept only $38,000?  Would they be willing to compromise?

Monica heard Joey let out a heavy sigh, and she lifted her head to look at him.  He had this continuous, pain-filled look on his face.  He looked as though someone had punched him in the gut, and he had yet to find his breath again.  He was leaned up against the living room window, his head tilted toward the glass, and his arms wrapped tightly around his chest.

Monica stood up slowly, and approached Joey, her eyes glassy and red.  She stopped in front of him, and placed a shaky hand on his forearm.  He wordlessly wrapped her in an embrace, and let out another slow, shaky breath.

Monica kept her head buried in Joey's chest, praying for time to stop, to slow down.  Hoping that what they had would be enough.

Wishing that she could go back in time, and tell Chandler that London was the best thing that ever happened to her.

Moments later, she felt the others surround her and Joey, arms around arms, and faces buried in shoulders.  The group of five stood in the shadows of the fading light, and prayed for a miracle, for a brighter tomorrow—for a sweet ending to the cruel nightmare that entrenched them.

They stood in silence.

And time ticked on.

~*~

It was dark…and cold.  So cold.  He shivered, and tried to ignore the unyielding, throbbing ache that filled every part of his body.  His mind focused on Monica, and of an imagined conversation he had been having with her over the past several hours.  His mind no longer aware of the line between what was real, and what was not, he would groan audibly, and loudly, unaware that the words that formed inside his head were indecipherable to the outside world.

_"Monica?  Wait, please!"_

_"This conversation is over!  And so are we!"_

_"No, Mon, wait, I can explain—"_

_"Explain?  Explain what?  That you're a pathetic loser who can't get his own life together, much less maintain a stable relationship?  That-that you are a horrible friend, and an even worse boyfriend?"_

_"Monica—"_

_"Leave me alone, Chandler!"_

"Monica!!" 

_"Stop yelling!" _

_"Monica!"_

_"I said shut up, Bing!"_

He was vaguely aware that someone had hit him, and that his head had hit the wall, and then the floor.  He struggled to sit up, but couldn't move.  He struggled to open his eyes, but the darkness consumed him.  He called out for Monica, but there came no reply.

He was alone again.

*

Jerry is becoming increasingly annoyed by our guest's constant moaning.  I think he is trying to say something, but with the gag cutting into his mouth, his words are lost.

He looks sick—he is sweaty, and he shakes a lot—his eyes are covered; yet he moves his head as though he was looking at something, or someone.

Today is the day.  We have given up any hope that this man's father is going to pull through with the money—we can only hope that his friends come through.

Jerry picks up the phone, and dials the number.  If these people don't have our money, I know that he will want to kill this man—and I'm not sure that I can let him do that.

He is looking at me, and I can tell by the look on his face, that they don't have the money.  My throat goes dry, and I feel flush; I look over at the closed closet door, and I wonder if this man is aware that his life is about to end.  Jerry is still talking to the people on the phone; it sounds as though they are trying to negotiate something—and there is a knock on the door.

Jerry's eyes light up, and I suddenly wonder if the trace-blocker on the phone is really working—but then I think that if it were the cops, they would have just kicked in the fucking door by now.

I walk toward the door and open it slowly.  An older man stands on the other side, out of breath and sweating.  He pulls out a gun and shoves it in my face.  He smells like gin and cigarettes.  I back up, and he follows me into the apartment, slamming the door as he enters.

Jerry drops the phone and pulls out his own gun.

"Charles, you stupid fucker. You're too late—I've already killed your kid."

"Bullshit," Charles says shakily, and turns to me, "Where is he?" he demands.

A noise from inside the closet, and the three of us turn to the door simultaneously.  Jerry turns his gun toward the closet, and pulls the trigger four times.  Charles drops his gun, and Jerry turns and shoots him in the head.

It all seems to happen in slow motion.  And I am unaware of the fact that I have fallen to my knees, and that I am muttering toward the dangling phone receiver.

"You killed them—I can't believe you killed them."

*

Ross and Rachel were on the phone shift, while the others went to get food.  Ross had insisted that Joey and Phoebe take Monica, and she had gone reluctantly, her eyes tearing up as she walked through the door.

They were sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the television screen, their minds only on their missing friend.

Ross was closest to the phone when it rang, and he picked it up halfway through the first ring.  Rachel watched, as he walked into the kitchen, while he carefully explained their situation to the man on the other end of the phone.  He listened, his shoulders dropping, when the offer to take the $38,000 was rejected.  

Ross kept talking, trying to get them to give him more time.  Suddenly, there was yelling, and the sound of the phone clattering.  He kept his ear to the phone, and was vaguely aware that Rachel had approached him, and that she had wrapped her arms around his waist as he listened.  She placed her head on his chest, but jerked away when he pulled the phone from his ear, the popping of gunshots startling him.

The room was silent, as Ross listened, trying to figure out what had happened.  Rachel saw his face drain of color, and in that instant, she knew.

Moments later, the others returned, their conversation animated, none of them aware of what had just transpired.

"What happened," Rachel whispered, as Ross pulled her away from the group, his ear still to the phone.

"They killed him.  And someone else…I don't know who it was."

"Are you sure?  I mean—"

"There were a lot of shots, Rach—I"

"We have to tell them," she whispered soberly.

Monica gnawed on her fingernails anxiously, as she watched her brother and best friend whisper quietly at the door.  Her brother looked over at her, then took a deep breath before walking toward her.

She held her breath, and kept her eyes focused on Ross' shoes.

"Hey Mon," Ross whispered, and placed a heavy hand on her bony shoulder.

"Just tell me who was on the phone, Ross," Monica said flatly.

"It was them," Ross said softly, his voice cracking slightly, "Chandler—Chandler's dead."

*

I can feel the panic rising up in me.  I look around the room frantically, and I struggle to catch my breath.

"Shit," Jerry mutters, "Fucking shit!"

"Jerry," I look at the dead man on the floor, his eyes glazed over, and his mouth spilling out pools of deep crimson blood, "W-we gotta get outta here…th-the gunshots—"

"I know, Fuckface," Jerry growls, "Get your shit, we're leaving!"

"I grab a bag, and throw together some essentials.  I move toward the closet, then remember that there is another dead man on the other side of the door.  I pull my hand away from the doorknob, and study the bullet holes on the door.  I hear a low moan emanate from the closet, and I jerk to attention.  The man inside is still alive.  I take a small step back, and debate about whether or not I should tell Jerry.

"Come on, dipshit, let's go!"

I turn to Jerry, and open my mouth, but something inside tells me that I should keep my mouth shut.  I shake my head, and hurriedly follow Jerry out the door.

*

He was huddled in the corner of the dark closet, unaware that his father had entered the apartment.  His mind was on the reality that he had created for himself—a reality based around his own insecurities and his last fight with Monica.  He had convinced himself that she was gone, and that he repulsed her, and all of their friends.  Had he been able to break down and cry, he would have, but as it stood he was unable to speak, unable to see, and unable to move.

Unable to laugh, or to cry.

He heard a popping—a gunshot, and milliseconds later he heard something smash through the wood of the door and hit the wall behind his head.  It was quickly followed by another, and as Chandler struggled to scoot to the floor, he felt a sharp pain burn through him, and a hazy dizziness overtake him, as the warmth from his own blood consumed him.  The pain sharpened, and he winced, and wondered how he could survive such intense pain.

As suddenly as it had started, the gunfire stopped, and he heard muffled voices, and hurried footsteps.  He was aware that one set of footsteps had drawn near, and he let out a low groan, and he wondered what was going to happen, when the door opened.

It never did.

The footsteps faded, and silence filled the room.

He felt all of his energy drain away, and as he slipped into a dark, pain-filled unconsciousness he wondered;

Would he ever see the light of day again?

*

Ross watched, as Monica collapsed into a kitchen chair, her head shaking vehemently.

"He's not, he can't b-be," she whispered to herself.

"I gotta go," Joey croaked, and rushed out of the apartment, with Phoebe on his heels.

"We don't know for sure, Ross—I mean—" Rachel wrapped her arms around Monica, and looked up at Ross pleadingly.

"I—I heard gunshots…lots of them."

They were silent for a moment, unable to form coherent thoughts.

Phoebe shattered the silence moments later, when she burst through the door, screaming.

(A few minutes earlier…)

Phoebe followed Joey into the apartment he shared with Chandler, and watched him collapse on the sofa—but not before he kicked over the coffee table and punched a throw pillow.  He let out a long, low growl, before burying his head into the sofa cushions.

She was at a loss—should she try to talk to him?  She had never ever seen him this upset before.  She began to walk towards him, when something caught her eye—the rhythmic, constant blinking light on Joey's answering machine.

She felt something…something familiar and at the same time strange.  

It was her gut instinct, telling her that she needed to hear what was on Joey's machine.

She stole a look at Joey, who was now full on crying on his sofa, then turned and hit the play button.

_You have one. New. Message. _The mechanical voice told her.

_Message One.  Today, Eight-Fifteen AM._

_Um, hi Joey, this is Charles Bing, um, Chandler's father.  I…I am about to do something incredibly stupid, and I…well, if something goes wrong, I need you to know…I know where Chandler is, and I…I'm going to get him…and if you—if you don't hear from one of us by noon or so…you should…you should call the cops, and have them come to…um, 347 East 86th Street…apartment eight…BEEP._

Phoebe stood in front of the machine, stunned.  She looked over at Joey, who was now sitting on the sofa, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Joey, I know where Chandler is," she said excitedly, before running out of the apartment, and bursting into Monica's.

*

The cab ride was silent, each person wondering the same thing: what would they find when they got there?  Were they putting themselves in harm's way?  What if he wasn't there anymore?

The cab pulled up to the building, and as Ross paid, everyone piled out onto the street.  Monica looked up at the red brick building, and felt her heart lurch—were they doing the right thing?  

It no longer mattered.  Filled with determination, Monica straightened her shoulders, and walked into the building, her heart overruling her mind's objections.

She didn't care how dangerous, how stupid it was—she was determined to see Chandler again.

No matter what.

AN: Okay, um, I just re-read this, and I am wondering, how many times I have ended chapters with that sentence?  Anyone know?  LOL.

Anyhoo, only one chapter left…aren't we happy??


	6. Five: Nevermore

**When We Dance**

_~Five: Nevermore~_

There's no living in my life anymore

_The seas have gone dry_

_And the rain's stopped falling_

_Please don't you cry any more_

_Can't you see_

_Listen to the breeze_

_Whisper to me please_

_Don't send me to the path of nevermore_

_(Freddie Mercury)_

"This can't be right…there is no apartment eight…there is NO apartment eight!!" Monica paced the hallway of the first floor, her eyes wild with panic and her brow covered in sweat.  The group had scoured the building, and had found no apartment number eight.  Unsure what to do next, the group stood huddled in the small, darkened hallway, their hopes quickly fading.

"Pheebs, are you sure his dad said apartment eight?" Ross turned to Phoebe, who was busy studying the ratty brown carpeting.

"Yeah that what he said…wait!  The machine might have cut him off!  Because he said eight…and then there was a beep!"

"There was a beep!  Mon, did you hear that, there was a beep!" Ross turned to his sister, and pulled her into a hug.

"So maybe it was eighteen!" Rachel said, as the group walked back down the hallway, fueled by renewed hope.

The door looked like all of the other doors in the building.  It was made of wood, and was covered in dingy white paint.  A peephole sat just below the brass numbers, and several locks ran along the left edge of the door.

But the door to apartment eighteen seemed darker, somehow, and more menacing.  The eight was barely hanging on by a nail, and when Joey reached out to touch it, it spun down with an eerie squeak, then began swinging back and forth from the bottom nail, like a pendulum.

"Joey!" Rachel hissed, "Stop it!"

Joey took a small step back, as Monica rapped on the door.  The knocks echoed in the hallway, sending chills up their spines.  When there was no answer, Monica knocked again, this time louder, and with more force.

There was no response.

Monica turned to look at the others, before turning back to the door and placing her hand on the doorknob.  Slowly, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The group stepped inside the apartment, and the first thing they noticed was the body lying in the center of the room.  Rachel gasped and clung to Ross, who was shaking and backing into a corner; Phoebe covered her mouth and fled into the hallway; and Joey and Monica slowly approached the body.

"I…I think that's Chandler's dad," Monica whispered, her heart racing.  _Where was Chandler?_

"He-he's dead," Joey whispered shakily.

"Yeah," Monica replied, as she straightened and scanned the empty room.  Her eyes fell onto the closet door.

"The closet," Monica said, as she crossed the room.  The others followed, stopping a few feet away from the closet door.  She ran a shaky finger across the bullet holes, and closed her eyes.  _This isn't happening_, she thought, _this is just a nightmare…it's just a horrible dream._

A dream she wanted desperately to wake from.

Monica placed her hand on the doorknob, and took a deep breath, before turning and opening the door.

She had prepared herself for the worst.  She had a mental image of the Polaroid that had been sent with the ransom note, and she knew that if they found Chandler, that she would have to see him like that; bound and gagged, possibly still bruised.

But she wasn't prepared for what was in the closet.

He was so emaciated; still bound, gagged and blindfolded, and more bruised than before.  His hair was wet with sweat and his skin was a ghostly gray-white.

But that wasn't what made Monica fall to her knees, and let out a strangled cry.

He was covered in blood—the result of a gunshot wound.

He looked dead; and in that split second before chaos struck, she was certain that he was.

Moments after Monica opened the closet door, the apartment door was kicked in, and several uniformed police officers stormed the room.

They were screaming at the group to get on the floor, and place their hands in front of them.

Monica was oblivious to their orders; her ears were ringing, and all she could see was Chandler.  It wasn't until one of the officers grabbed her arm, and shoved her to the ground that she was aware of what was happening to her.

She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came out.

"Unit 222 requesting an ambulance at 347 East 86th," the officer standing over Chandler was speaking into his walkie-talkie, as the other officers grilled the people that they had found at the scene.

"Please, you have to believe us!  We came here to find our friend!  His dad is the other guy over there…and he called us and told us to come here…please, you have to help our friend," the officer listened as four of the five people they had apprehended pleaded their case.  He looked at the fifth person, a pretty, dark haired woman who looked like she was in shock.  She hadn't taken her eyes off of the injured man since they had arrived, and he was beginning to believe that they had apprehended the wrong people.  The ebony-haired woman turned to look at him, and the officer was taken aback by the profound sadness that weighed on her face.

"Can you untie him at least?  Please help him," she whispered, turning again to the man they had pulled from the closet, her eyes glazing over slightly, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

*

The other four looked up, as Monica shuffled into the waiting room, a thin brown blanket wrapped around her thin frame.  She had been treated for shock, and had been released several minutes earlier.

"You okay Mon?" Rachel stood and led her friend into a small brown chair in the corner of the room.

"Did they say anything?  Did they find who did it?  Who killed him?" Monica's voice was shaky and soft, and her eyes were glassy and bloodshot.

"He-um, Mon, Chandler's not dead…he…he's in surgery.  They think…he'll be okay," Rachel whispered, smiling.

Monica looked up at Rachel, and at the faces of the others, and smiled slightly, before letting tears of relief slide down her face.

*

He had been trapped in darkness for so long, he had grown accustomed to it; even drew strength from its depths.  The cold would seize him, and he would bury himself in the darkness, in the security of the only thing he knew anymore.

But he never got used to the loneliness.

And now, in the complete darkness that inhabited his soul, he had convinced himself that he was alone, and that he would be, alone and inside the darkness, until death claimed him.

Was he dead?  He felt nothing, and the darkness still surrounded him.  He could hear nothing, and he knew that there was no one there.

No one cared anymore…right?

Suddenly, a distant, foreign sound filled his ears.  A beeping, rhythmic and monotone, but muted by the darkness that protected him…that stifled him.  He pulled away from the darkness, and the sound grew louder.  Curious, he followed the sound into an unsteady consciousness.

The light was blinding to eyes that hadn't experienced it for countless hours.  He squinted, as the harsh rays of the dawning sun slipped through the blinded windows in thick, ginger stripes.  Where was he?  As his eyes adjusted to the light, he noted that he was no longer bound and gagged, but there was something in his nose.  He lifted his arm tentatively, and touched the oxygen tube that snaked across his face.  Hospital.  He was in a hospital.  But how did he get here?  Where were the men that had taken him?  He closed his eyes, opening them slowly when he heard the door to his room open.

He blinked, certain that his mind was betraying him once again.  

But she was still there, standing in the center of the room, looking absolutely stunning.

He had seen her before, of course, in his dreams and delusions.  She had been too far away to touch, and yet so close…he had longed to wrap himself around her, to draw from her warmth…but she would always elude him…she was always just out of reach…and his heart broke every time she walked away.

But this time…_this time_ she seemed so real…so close…but he didn't have the strength to stand, or even move.  He looked at her pleadingly, his eyes begging her to make his dream a reality.

To his surprise, she walked toward him, until she was just inches away, standing over his bed, tears streaming down her delicate, porcelain face.

"Chandler," she whispered, "I…I thought I'd lost you…"

He gazed up at her, still too stunned to speak, still wary that none of this was real.  But when she reached out, and caressed his cheek softly, he could no longer deny that this moment, whether real or imagined, was the only thing keeping him alive.

"I'm going to go get the doctor…and the others want to see you, now that you're awake," Monica smiled.  She pulled her hand away, and turned toward the door.

"No!  Monica, please don't leave me!  Please—" Chandler cried out hoarsely, salty tears lining his tired eyes.

Monica turned, and approached him again, her eyes wide with concern.

"Honey, I'm just going out into the hallway.  I'll be right back."

"No…please, swear to me that you'll never leave me.  I don't want to die alone…and I don't want to live alone…please promise me that you'll never leave, okay?"

Monica started, shaken by the intense fear that resided in Chandler's once-shining cerulean eyes.  She nodded vehemently, and struggled desperately not to cry.

"I promise, sweetie.  I swear," Monica rasped, and leaned in to kiss his forehead softly.

"I can't be alone," Chandler whispered again.

"I would never leave you," Monica whispered, and closed her eyes, as Chandler's panicked grip on her arm tightened, "I'm so sorry, Chandler.  I never meant…I need to tell you—" Monica looked up at Chandler, who had calmed slightly, and was looking at her curiously, "Chandler, when I saw you…in that…closet a few days ago, I thought…I thought I had lost you.  And I wanted more than anything, to have just one moment, just a moment to tell you…to tell you that I…I never regretted London.  It was the best thing that ever happened to me, and…I lost a part of my heart, the day I thought you were dead…I love you, and I am so sorry—"

"I love you too, Monica," Chandler whispered softly, "I'm sorry too."

Monica sniffled, and looked up at Chandler, confusion lining her brow.

"Why are you sorry?  You didn't do anything…this wasn't your fault…"

"I'm sorry I made you cry," Chandler whispered, "It breaks my heart to see you cry."

Monica smiled, and pulled herself up onto the bed, careful not to disturb the various tubes that surrounded Chandler.  She wrapped her arms around his torso, and laid her head on his chest.

"Welcome home Chandler," Monica sighed sleepily.

Chandler stared up at the ceiling, the memories of the past ten days haunting his soul.  He pulled Monica toward him, and closed his weary eyes.

As long as she was here, he was home.

****Epilogue****

Chandler reclined his head onto the back of the deck chair, his head lolling to one side lazily.  He took a deep breath, and let the salty sea air fill his lungs.

Ahead of him, the Atlantic Ocean was sprawled in an endless mass, ebbing and flowing rhythmically, as the evening sun began its rapid descent into the distant horizon.  A blaze of dusty pinks, yellows, oranges and indigos swept across the sky, creating a canopy to which nothing could compare.  

The screen door creaked open, and Monica emerged, wearing thin, beige linen pants and his dark gray Knicks sweatshirt.  She set down two glasses of lemonade on the table adjacent to his chair, and climbed into his lap.

"The sky is amazing tonight," she whispered reverently, careful not to disturb the calm atmosphere.

"It seems to get a little better every night," Chandler replied, and pulled Monica closer toward him.

She smiled, knowing that his statement implied much more.  

It had been four months since Chandler's kidnapping, and outside of the occasional nightmare, and his absolute refusal to sleep without at least one light on, he had recovered amazingly well.  The group was spending a week up in Montauk, all of them desperately needing a break from the chaos of the city.

Monica and Chandler's peaceful respite was shattered by the arrival of four bickering friends.

"Ross, just let it go, okay?" Rachel fumed, as the group headed for the front porch.

"Look, all I'm saying is that there is no way that a _person_ can inhabit a _rock_, okay?"

"Well then why do people have Pet Rock's then, huh?" Joey argued, as Phoebe nodded in agreement, her rock nestled securely in her hand.

Monica looked at Chandler, who was shaking his head and laughing.  She turned to the group, and whistled loudly to get their attention.

"So, who's hungry?" Monica asked loudly.

"Yeah, baby!" Joey exclaimed, and ran into the house, the others closely following.

"Is the _rock_ gonna eat with us too, Pheebs?" Ross asked bitterly, as he followed her inside.  Monica moved to follow Ross, but stopped when she noted that Chandler had not left his chair.

"You coming in?" she asked softly.

"Yeah, I'll be in there in a second," Chandler smiled, and watched Monica go into the house.  He turned, and looked up at the increasingly darkening sky.  As the night consumed the day, stars began twinkling, winking down at him as though they were in on a secret.  

Chandler sighed, and stood up, stretching slowly, as a cool night breeze kicked up, and swept through the porch.  Dead leaves danced past his bare feet, and sand slid across the wooden deck silently.  Chandler smiled, and turned to look at the scene unfolding through the screen door: Monica struggling to pull together her meal, while Joey, Ross, Rachel and Phoebe studied the 'inhabited' rock that lay lifelessly on the kitchen table.  He shook his head and mentally cataloged a list of sarcastic remarks and rock jokes he could use at dinner, before swinging the door open and sauntering inside.

"Dude, what the hell were you doing out there?" Joey looked up from Phoebe's rock, and tilted his head slightly.

"Just…taking it all in," Chandler smiled knowingly, and placed a heavy hand on Joey's shoulder.

"Taking _what_ in?"

"Life," Chandler grinned, then looked at Monica, who was looking at him lovingly, "Love…friendship…I'm taking it all in," Chandler grinned.

"Yeah, this new, positive-thinking Chandler is kind of creeping me out," Phoebe joked.

"This coming from a woman who spent the afternoon conversing with a _rock_," Chandler arched an eyebrow, and silently reveled in the laughter of his friends.

It was the greatest sound in the world.


End file.
